Tom Riddle- Wandmaker Extraordinaire
by Little Doctor
Summary: What if Tom Riddle saw the obvious solution to immortality- Garrick Ollivander? Follow a slightly more intelligent Tom Riddle on a slightly more peaceful quest to immortality. Features Young!Tom, Teenage!Tom, Intelligent!Tom, and maybe even Wise!Tom.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Okay, it just seems reeeeally obvious that Ollivander is immortal. 382 B.C., seriously? Anyway, what if Tom was slightly more perceptive and slightly more willing to compromise in his quest for immortality?**

 **There is more to come . . . I was just too lazy to finish it. I do have an ending in mind though.**

When Voldemort Went After the Obvious Solution to Immortality:

* * *

 _Ollivander's Maker of Fine Wands since 328 B.C._

Eleven-year-old Tom Riddle entered the shop, greeted with the sight of a withered old man. He did not make much of the sign (after all, 328 B.C.? Probably a family business), instead choosing to observe the dusty orderliness around him. Ollivander was a genius, but an organized genius. Each wand clearly had its own place. He seemed as old as a mountain- albeit one that would blow away at the faintest trace of wind. His voice was wispy and his hair was thin, yet he stood straight and chased away these signs of mortality with bright silver eyes.

There was no sign of a child or any heir to his business.

How strange, mused Tom as he left fingering his yew wand. The old man would probably die soon.

* * *

Tom was fourteen and he pushed the door open. The chimes rang with a light tinkle. The Lestrange child trailed behind him. Tom did not care for the arrogant boy, born into everything Tom had not been. However, Tom had been tasked with taking Lestrange Hogwarts shopping, and Tom had no desire to offend such a wealthy family.

Ollivander was still old and the place still smelled of dust. Tom wrinkled his nose. Tom despised dirt and filth. Any wizard as magical as Ollivander could surely whisk this dust away with a twitch of his wand, but Ollivander had not. It probably added to his mystique. Tom watched as the Lestrange brat opened his eyes with wonder, and watched as Ollivander performed his part, playing the mysterious wandmaker.

It really was pathetic how Ollivander pandered to his audience.

* * *

Tom eyed the orphans dispassionately. The orphanage had evacuated into the Underground, and Tom had to witness these pathetic snivelling Muggles become even more pathetic and snivelling. When the all clear was finally given, Tom was relieved, but not for the same reason that most of his fellow orphans were relieved. Tom couldn't spend another second surrounded by these idiots without murdering someone. Luckily he would be turning seventeen in two years, so this was the second-to-last miserable summer he'd have to spend with Mrs. Cole.

Tom was also a little disturbed. While Muggle were nothing more than cattle, and their deaths meant as such, Tom was a wizard. He did not want his life in the hands of some Nazi moron who might decide to aim a little left instead of a little right. No, Tom wanted absolute control over his life. Truth be told, he was also scared. He was not ready for death, not when he had just begun to live.

Perhaps he needed to pay the library a visit.

* * *

"Have you really been alive since 382 B.C.?" asked an innocent voice surrounded by an angel's face and a childlike countenance.

Ollivander stooped low, for Tom was still short enough that he could play the 'cute' card, and whispered, "Magic creates many mysteries. Some are not for wizards to solve."

He slowly smiled, and with one wink of a silver eye, left to the back of the shop.

Tom stood there, fuming. He had asked an important question, _lowered himself to asking others for information_ , and was patronized for it. His anger grew until he spun on his heel and slammed the door. He needed to go to Knockturn Alley.

* * *

Tom was twenty-four and armed with power. He had considered using horcruxes, but the idea of sentencing a piece of himself to possibly an eternity of loneliness didn't appeal to him. Especially if he was that piece. Tom's minions formed a protective ring around the wand shop, like that would do anything. If Ollivander had been alive for as long as he suspected, simpletons with wands would not provide even a distraction. Tom himself had performed a complex ward around the perimeter, but even that might not hold the wandmaker.

The old man was waiting for him. His eyes caught Tom's.

With a flick of his wand, Tom shut the doors and hit Ollivander with the strongest, most obscure body bind spell he knew of.

"Impressive," creaked Ollivander, barely fazed. This only confirmed Tom's suspicions. Ollivander looked so ancient because he _was_ ancient. The sign on the door was no advertising scheme, Ollivander had actually been working his wand shop since 382 B.C. Everything Tom had dug up on him pointed to it. The only reason the wizarding community ignored this blatant immortal was because they were blind and lacked common sense. If Nicholas Flamel hadn't broadcasted his discovery, Tom doubted his schoolmates would have ever known about it.

"Tell me how you did it," Tom aimed his wand at Ollivander and considered him. With his other hand, he slightly motioned toward the wall of wands.

"Clever, clever Tom." Ollivander didn't beat around the bush.

"How would you like to become a wandmaker."

Tom blinked. That was unexpected.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I am aware this is short, but I hope it's a satisfying conclusion. Okay, now for some shameless self advertising.**

 **Check out my other stories: read Evil is as Evil Does if you like a coherent!mildly-delusional!Voldemort who really just wants Quirrell to understand that teaching and dark-lording are equally important jobs, and that you should definitely, never ever give less than 100% effort.**

* * *

The bell tinkled as the door opened and a woman and a boy walked in. The woman had fiery red hair and brilliant emerald eyes. The boy, who was clearly her son, had those same flashing eyes, but had black hair instead of red. He looked around nervously.

"Ms. Evans! Or is it Mrs. Potter now?" Ollivander slowly made his way around the pile of wands and Tom's latest project.

"It's Potter," she placed a proud hand on her son, "And this is my son, Harry Potter."

"Why yes, Harry Potter. You have your mother's eyes, you know."

A smile made its way onto Harry's face. He was a tall, healthy child with a fair amount of mischief on his eyes. Tom knew he wouldn't try anything in the wand shop, though. Ollivander commanded a lot of respect.

"Thank you sir."

The show commenced, Ollivander at his most dramatic, watching wands break windows and destroy various parts of his shop. He danced around, pulling long boxes of wands from his shelves and feeling their wood and core. Tom looked on in faint amusement. He knew the general wizarding populace felt Ollivander to be mysterious and ancient, but they had no real idea of what lay behind his carefully constructed demeanor. Ollivander was a wandmaker, but it was for different reasons than people expected.

* * *

 **About 30 years ago . . .**

Learning to be a wandmaker was frustrating, Tom reflected. He could barely believe that's what he left behind his old life for. Neither could his followers. It took a few well-applied memory charms to make them settle down and stop casting the dark mark every couple days. The country was abuzz with questions as to why and how this up-and-coming dark lord of Magical Britain disappeared. Most rumors pointed to Dumbledore as his vanquisher. Tom snickered whenever he heard that one. Dumbledore was far too weak and troubled to go after him personally. Whatever Dumbledore was in his prime, he wasn't now.

Choosing to learn with Ollivander was a tough decision. In the beginning, Tom's rage was a volcano, liable to explode at any given time. On one memorable occasion, his accidental magic blew out all the windows in the shop. Tom was only there because his fear of death was so great, and hated Ollivander for forcing him to choose between ruling Magical Britain and becoming immortal. Sometimes, Tom regretted staying. Occasionally, he fantasized about killing the old man in his sleep. He never followed through, though. In a strange way, Ollivander was the only person in the world who actually knew him. In return, Tom cared for Ollivander in way he'd never cared for anyone but himself before.

"Help me prepare these woods, child," called Ollivander from the back room.

Tom gave an aggravated sigh, but it was a fond sigh. He hurried to the back room, ready to assist Ollivander in the arduous task of cleansing and purifying the woods.

* * *

Ollivander was a wandmaker because he cared deeply about everything and everyone. His kindness to the forest and his love for magical creatures allowed him to use their wood and feathers without repercussion. He was devoted to the earth, and the earth cherished him in return. It gifted him with the ability to understand the tree-song and listen to bird-speak.

Ollivander cared about Tom. He cared enough to stop him from travelling along the dark path he was travelling on before Ollivander intervened.

Tom was learning to care too. He was, after all, a wandmaker.


End file.
